David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

“Yeah, it looked bleak,” Jerico said. “But you were there among the refugees. You remember their prayers. They were desperate for salvation, hungry for it for the first time in their lives. Now, even those that never prayed, never humbled, cheer as if they won some great victory.”

“Didn’t we?” Lathaar asked.

Before Jerico could answer, they heard shouts from a group further south. The two paladins hurried over, and as they neared they saw bodies of dozens of horses lying twisted and bleeding on the ground. The dead riders were a tangled mass of dark paladins and soldiers of Neldar.

“This is where they met,” Jerico said as they approached.

“What is the matter?” Lathaar asked two men who stood over a body with torches raised high. They were soaked with sweat.

“He’s alive,” one of them said, pointing.

Lathaar drew his swords, and in their light he saw the face of the one they spoke of.

“Leave us,” Lathaar said. “Now.”

The two did as they were told. Lathaar walked closer, and Jerico felt his skin crawl at the soft, maniacal laugh that emanated forth.

“I was hoping it’d be any other than you,” the dark paladin said, choking as he laughed. “Looks like Karak has truly forsaken me.”

Krieger lay on his back, his arms spread wide. His horse lay atop his legs, its weight having crushed his armor inward so everything below his waist was a bloody, broken mess. One of his scimitars lay trapped beneath the horse, the other, just out of reach.

“You’ve always been forsaken,” Lathaar said, his face darkening in the blue-light of his swords. “You just never knew it.”

“I was the stronger,” Krieger said. “I die knowing that.”

“No,” Jerico said, interrupting the two. “You’ll die knowing you lost. You’ll die knowing we lived.”

Before either could react, Jerico shoved Lathaar, tumbling him to the ground away from the trapped dark paladin. As Krieger spat, Jerico grabbed his mace, took a step forward, and swung. He crushed the side of Krieger’s face, broke his neck, and splattered blood about the grass. Jerico shook a bit of the gore off his weapon before clipping it to his belt.

“He was mine to kill!” Lathaar shouted as he stood. “You knew that!”

“Your feud is over,” Jerico said, his voice quiet and firm. “A feud that dragged itself far below the ideals that started it. You wanted to prove yourself, not Ashhur. It’s over.”

Lathaar lowered his weapons, staring at Krieger’s mutilated face and praying for his rage to cease. He almost felt cheated. Three times they had faced off, but never once reaching the finality each of them sought.

“Forgive me,” Lathaar said, sheathing his swords and shaking his head. “Guess that’s why you’re the wiser of us.”

“Just get over here and help me free his body,” Jerico said, tugging on Krieger’s arms. “He’s in here good.”

“Remove his armor,” Lathaar said. “Might be able to slip him out if he weighs less.”

Jerico knelt to one knee, propping Krieger’s body on his shoulder. He winced as blood trickled onto him.

“Got the buckles,” he said, yanking several free. With a shudder he stepped back and let the body hit the ground. Lathaar yanked off Krieger’s breastplate, grunting at how much it weighed. He dropped it aside, where it hit the ground with a thud. As Lathaar caught his breath, he tilted his head and pointed.

“What the Abyss is that?” he asked.

Jerico reached down and yanked on the chain wrapped around Krieger’s neck. Attached was a large pendant. It was charred and scratched, but both had just seen one remarkably similar. Through the damage they saw the faint image of a lion roaring atop a mountain.

“Azariah’s pendant,” Lathaar said.

He reached out and touched it with his bare hand. He screamed. His hand blackened. He fell to his knees, and three times he vomited blood.

“Lathaar!” Jerico shouted, but Lathaar was already fading away, his vision a swirling image of blood, shadow, and chaos.

“L athaar!”

Lathaar opened his eyes, feeling drugged and sleepy.

“What?” he muttered. He tried to roll over, but his body refused to obey.

“Praise Ashhur,” he heard Jerico say. Lathaar ignored him. He was tired, too tired, and from what little his eyes saw he knew it was night. Didn’t Jerico know he needed sleep?

“My chest hurts,” Lathaar said. “Wait until morning.”

“Not a chance,” Jerico said. Lathaar felt hands wrap around his body, and he heard a scream as his weight shifted into Jerico’s arms. He realized moments later the scream was his own. He thought he was on Jerico’s shoulder, and perhaps his feet were dragging, but what was so important?

“Stay with me,” he heard Jerico say as he faded away.

He dreamt of shadows that stretched for miles, filled with teeth and claws that tore into his flesh and broke his bones and bathed in his blood.

“O pen your eyes, paladin.”

Lathaar groaned and refused. Why couldn’t people let him sleep? He listened to what appeared to be a conversation, but it was a strange one, because all the voices sounded the same to him.

“We didn’t know what it was.”

“Nor could you have.”

“Will he survive?”

“The evil within it is strong. Karak held it in his own hands and blessed it.”

“The pendant… it’s the same as yours, isn’t it?”

“The mark of the most high priest, just before the gods’ war. I was Ashhur’s. This pendant here could only belong to one other.”

“Velixar.”

“Leave him alone,” Lathaar said as he heard the name. “You leave… you leave him alone.”

“Lathaar? Wake up, Lathaar, you have to fight this! Fight it!”

He dreamt of a thousand mouths filled with white teeth that shone in the dark, and all of them laughed at him, laughed and laughed as he felt total helplessness and abandonment.

Light pierced the darkness. He felt hope. The mouths ceased their laughing, and instead they wailed in anger.

F or a brief moment, Lathaar thought he had died and gone to the eternity. The walls were gold. The ceiling was marble. He was in a bed, the sheets a brilliant white. Paintings of trees and mountains decorated the room. He started as the large door opened, and in walked an angel.

“You’re awake,” the angel said. “Excellent.”

“Where am I?” Jerico asked.

“Avlimar. You’ve been here for several days under Azariah’s care.”

“What happened to me?” Lathaar asked. He tried to remember, but all he could see in his mind was fire, darkness, and teeth. The clothes on his body were wet with sweat, and as he shifted off the bed he realized his armor was gone. The floor was cold against his bare feet.

“In time,” the angel said. “But first, there are others who would like to see you.”

The angel left, and a moment later Jerico entered the room, a gigantic grin on his face. Tarlak followed, wagging his finger at him.

“No scaring us like that again,” Tarlak said. “Or so help me, I’ll make sure you don’t wake up next time.”

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Jerico said, bear-hugging Lathaar. “I thought we had lost you.”

“I’m too stubborn for that,” Lathaar said. He gently pushed Jerico away, his whole body covered with aches. “And why do I feel like I was run over by a battering ram?”

“That pendant you found,” Tarlak said, plopping down in a golden chair with gigantic red cushions. “That was one doozy of a magical item. Touching it, well, that was like hopping into a volcano to see if the lava’s hot. Suffice to say, you got burned.”

Jerico vanished outside the room and reappeared with a handful of Lathaar’s armor.